


Unexpected Talents

by Animunculi



Series: A Stumbling Progression [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Although slightly more serious, Enemies to two men with a grudging understanding to friends who like hitting each other, Fenris and Anders bond by beating the crap out of each other, Gen, Humor, pre-fenders - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animunculi/pseuds/Animunculi
Summary: As he lies on his back with the hinges of Aveline’s sabatons catching on his luscious chest hair, Varric decides that not a word of this will ever appear in his book.





	Unexpected Talents

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the (tragically) cut audio of Aveline beating the crap out of various companions in the sparring ring. If you haven't heard it yet, it's on YouTube and it will enrich your life.  
> In other news, if Layman's Treatment is Pre-Pre-Fenders, then this is officially Pre-Fenders. Yay, relationship progression.
> 
> Also, this is right at the end of Act 1, which lasts two years in my canon. Don't worry, I got this.

Lounging across from the Darktown clinic, with arms crossed and lips curved into a grim frown, is Fenris.

The clinic’s patients avoid him, eyeing the angry set of his eyebrows and the size of his sword, and even the Coterie give him a wide berth. Although a few of the regulars (the drunk lounging behind a crate, for example) have become acclimated to Fenris’ presence and are coexisting with the glowing death elf quite peacefully.

Despite the aura his expression excludes, a general miasma of barely suppressed, murderous rage, Fenris is actually in a surprisingly good mood. He refuses to express the eagerness he feels while awaiting the moment the clinic’s rickety door swings open to reveal the tired face of one apostate, because Fenris still has his pride, but that doesn’t depreciate the sensation.

He quietly considers sending Aveline a fruit basket in appreciation of her genius.

Fenris doesn’t have to wait long as, after a quarter of an hour, Anders pokes his head out looking just as exhausted as Fenris predicted he would. The healer glances between the tunnels, confused over his lack of patients, and catches Fenris on his second sweep of the Darktown Commons. The mage wears an expression of dazed tiredness as he examines Fenris before recognition sets in and his lip curls.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Anders snaps, only to immediately straighten up and glance away with a guilty frown. “I, ah, I mean, are you… injured?”

Fenris watches Anders filter between several distinct reactions, anger twisting to a gentle curiosity to awkward shuffling, and shakes his head in exasperation. It both irritates and amuses him how Anders can seem so confused over his own emotions.

“Aveline has called us to the guard barracks,” Fenris says sharply, leaving no room for Anders to misinterpret the statement as a threat, but watches Anders’ expression sour anyway. “She has called everyone,” he adds so Anders has no cause to claim oppressive treatment.

Anders still looks suspicious, glancing up and down the corridors with narrowed eyes. Fenris can respect the caution, at least, but it still irritates him to see his own traits reflected in Anders.

“And what?” Anders drawls as his attention returns to Fenris. “You came down out of the goodness of your heart?”

Fenris snorts. That small degree of amusement appears to resonate within Anders and the mage responds with his own nervous grin. Once again, Fenris marvels at the shift. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the atmosphere.”

Fenris gestures to the degradation of humanity on display before the both of them.

Anders breaths out a huff of laughter, only to immediately change track and sullenly stuff his hands under his armpits. Luckily, despite how tired he appears, this looks to be a good day for Anders; there haven’t been any attacks on Fenris’ dignity yet nor any developing rants. The shifting emotions seem to be a symptom of Fenris’ presence rather than, what Aveline calls, one of his “moods”.

Anders frowns. “And why do I have to go exactly?”

“She did not see it fit to tell me,” Fenris lies. It will be far more enjoyable to watch Anders figure out the truth himself. “But Hawke awaits our arrival, so if you do not come, I will simply go and someone else will fetch you.”

Fenris then turns on his heels and takes several large strides, inviting Anders to either follow or be left behind. Obviously, Anders is coming whether he wants to or not, even if Fenris has to send Aveline, a sheaf of rope, and a gag in his stead, but the mage doesn’t need to know that yet.

“Wait! Wait, you blighted elf,” Anders calls out just as Fenris thought he would, the sound of the mage’s feet slipping through the Darktown refuse growing louder as he hurries to catch up. “Andraste’s tits, can’t you wait a minute? Maker, how do you walk so fast when you’re so short?”

Fenris, instead of pointing out that he is in fact very tall for his race and Anders is simply unreasonably stretched out, says, “Desire to escape your company.”

“Ha _ha_.” Anders laughs sardonically, as he tends to when he can’t come up with a suitable insult right away.

Once he rounds a corner and faces away from the mage, Fenris does his best to stifle an unbidden grin. Today, he decides, will be one of those “good days” he keeps hearing about.

* * *

 

As they walk through Lowtown, Fenris watches Anders.

He wonders if the mage has noticed how closely he has been watched during these last few weeks. He wonders if Anders has guessed his intentions. If he has, he shows no outward signs.

There is no malicious motive to Fenris’ observations, simply an attempt to rectify what he knows of the mage with what he has seen. For example, he knows power corrupts all those in possession of it, but he has not seen ambition’s dreadful tendrils in Anders’ behavior.

Weeks ago, as Fenris lay prone in the mage’s derelict clinic, his primary motivation was to work Anders out. To discover his motivations with the clinic and the populous of Darktown and with Fenris himself.

By the time he allowed Anders to heal him, enjoying the mage’s gibbering shock _a bit_ too much, Fenris was only more confused by the man. Thus, not one to let an undefined variable exist so close to him when he was so vulnerable, Fenris set about watching Anders.

To his own shock, Fenris discovered Anders to be a good man.

How tragic, then, that he was born a mage.

The moment the guard barracks and training field come into view, Anders’ frown turns a touch more sour. “I can’t believe Aveline just expects me to drop everything and meet her,” Anders complains. Thinking on it now, Fenris is surprised the mage had managed to remain silent for so long already. “I have _work_ and _patients_.”

“Your work and your patients can wait,” Fenris argues and raises a hand to hurry Anders along without touching him. “They suffered long before you arrived in Kirkwall, they will suffer long after.”

Although he follows Fenris’ directive and picks up his pace, Anders still shoots the elf a disapproving glower. “Oh right, you’re one of those cheerful optimists. How _refreshing_.”

“I imagine so,” Fenris drawls, “in your line of work.”

The remainder of the walk is silent, a new and fun twist given the precedent, and is something Fenris attributes to Anders’ sulk.

In the end, Fenris refuses to look back and leads the mage through the slim alleyway between the guard barracks and the armory, nodding at Donnic as he waves a hand and opens the gate at the end. The guardsman appears a touch confused; obviously Aveline is more adapt at secret keeping than Fenris ever would’ve guessed.

Although Aveline had managed to clear a small arena for Hawke’s gang to train in, she demanded they enter through the side gate to avoid her Captain who Hawke had already gotten on the wrong side of (Hawke blames Varric, who Fenris personally thinks is probably guilty).

The brightness of the enclosure they enter is almost blinding after the darkened alley. There are wooden benches lining one side of the wall while the rest of the dirt patch is enclosed by the guard keep’s high surrounding walls (Anders makes a disapproving noise at the architecture but Fenris finds it suitable). In the center of the dirt arena, looking for all intent like she was born and intends to die there, is Aveline, shouting commands at the meager group she’s gathered.

“Anders!” Aveline orders the moment she sees them. “Get in line!” With a sudden swing of her arm, Aveline points to where Bethany and Merrill are standing, both looking wary and confused, just behind her.

Anders sends Fenris one last confused glance, which the elf returns with impassivity, before he steps over the small trench surrounding the patch of dirt and enters the ring.

“What’s going on here?” Anders asks Bethany as he squeezes in between her and Merrill.

Bethany lifts her arms in a shrug, but it’s Merrill who leans close and whimpers, “I think we’re being executed.”

“We are not being executed,” Bethany answers with a roll of her eyes, although despite her assurance, neither of the other apostates look convinced. Perhaps because they don’t have an older brother lounging in the wooden benches above.

“In a week’s time,” Aveline begins, “one of you hopeless louts will be in the Deep Roads, Hawke hasn’t decided who yet because he’s an _idiot_ , but I think you all ought to be prepared for what you’ll encounter down there.”

Before Anders can interrupt with what Fenris assumes might, for the first time, be a fair argument about his status as a Grey Warden, Aveline shouts, “Shut up! Right now, you need to learn how to defend yourselves _without_ magic, because you won’t always be able to use it in the tunnels or when you’re too exhausted and none of us can afford you as a burden!”

Fenris has to physically hold back a burst of laughter as all color drains from Anders and Merrill’s already pale faces. Next to him, Isabela giggles into her fist.

“Isabela, you fight with Bethany. Fenris, you get Anders. Merrill, you’re with me!” Aveline orders over Merrill squeak of disapproval and Anders' sharp “ _What?!_ ”

“Why can’t I fight Anders?” Merrill cries as she stomps her foot in the dirt, probably hoping for the same thing Fenris is; a chance to relieve some tension by beating an object of irritation with a wooden stick.

Fenris smirks. Weeks ago, upon hearing of Aveline’s plan to hold the training session for the mages (after her disastrous session with the rogues), he had known there would be hefty competition for Anders. Fenris had competed against Isabela, Hawke, Varric, and Aveline herself for the honor of smacking an impossible, infuriating mage around and planned accordingly.

He had done quite a number of favors for Aveline to assure his opponent.

“Sorry,” Aveline says insincerely. “Fenris has a better technique for larger opponents.”

Fenris’ smirk widens; and yet Aveline claimed bribery would never get him anywhere.

It had been a hard fought campaign as well; Fenris had no idea so many of their friends had cause to want to beat Anders with a stick. Except Bethany, because she is a young woman and sees every adult male as a suitable romantic partner, who is currently making doe eyes at Anders.

Anders doesn’t notice either Fenris’ predatory grin or Bethany’s fluttering lashes as he kicks at a stray rock. “This is _stupid_ ,” he complains to the air. “We’re not your bloody guard! You can’t force me to spar against that blighted elf just for your sick amusement.”

Fenris thinks to mention that this event is really for Varric and Hawke’s sick amusement, but keeps his mouth shut. He is already enthused enough by winning Anders in the very competitive lottery, he doesn’t need to bring the mage down any further.

“Actually,” Fenris says instead, because he has to drive the knife a little further, “I believe Varric garners more enjoyment out of your predicament than Aveline does.”

Anders follows Fenris’ extended finger to catch Varric, with his stick of charcoal and pad of paper at the ready, and Hawke next to him, both laughing at the mages from their perch atop the benches.

Anders frowns severely. “You’re both dead to me!” he shouts up to them.

“I’ve got twenty sovs on Fenris!” Hawke returns. “You can have five if you throw the fight, Anders!”

“No betting,” Aveline calls back, her scolding drowned out by Varric’s cackling. The dwarf, who spends a great deal of time (and coin) keeping Anders and Merrill’s whereabouts hidden and mouths full, might have even more tension to release than Fenris. “And certainly no throwing the fight,” Aveline adds viciously to Anders.

“Don’t worry,” Anders grumbles. “I certainly won’t be _throwing_ the fight.”

“Now go pick your weapons,” Aveline snaps, gesturing over to the table lined with wooden swords and axes with blunted heads. “And remember, this is _training_. I’ve gotten us some privacy but if one of you lot sets something on fire, someone will notice and if someone notices, _I will not be happy about it_.”

The three mages rush to the table, all eying the long pole resembling a bladed staff, and after tripping Bethany and sending an elbow to Anders’ gut, it’s Merrill who lifts the weapon with a victorious cry.

Fenris rolls his eyes as both Anders and Bethany are forced to snatch one-handed short swords. Typical beginner choice; Fenris would have advised going for a longer sword to keep their opponent at bay, but then again, he _really_ wants to knock Anders on his skinny arse.

Isabela hands Fenris his own weapon, a blunted long sword of a truly dreadful, chaffing metal, and the two share a smirk. “Try not to be too rough on him,” Isabela coos mockingly. “The Big Girl promised I’d get my turn with sparklefingers next time.”

Fenris lifts an eyebrow. “You believe there will be a next time?”

“Like I said, don’t be too rough with him.”

“Maker,” Anders shouts in exasperation as he approaches, catching the tail end of their conversation. “I’m not a bloody virgin, Isabela.”

Isabela grins, partially eager but also somewhat sympathetic, as she eyes Anders. “Oh, sweet thing, just be sure to do some stretches before tangling with our brooding friend.” With one last glance toward Fenris, saucy and lusting per usual, she steps forward and pats Anders’ cheek before leaving them in favor of Bethany.

Anders waits until Isabela is gone before turning to Fenris and asks in a surprisingly serious tone, “We’re not having sex, are we?”

Fenris doesn’t dignify the question with a roll of his eyes, instead he simply sneers and barks, “Not on your life, _mage_.”

“Oh thank the Maker for small mercies,” Anders cries to the heavens, raising his arms in a mockery of worship. “Isabela kind of made it sound like it _would_ be my life.”

Fenris grits his teeth and thinks of how many times he’ll be allowed to hit Anders over the next few hours. And Varric won’t even yell at him.

“Get ready!” Aveline shouts to the three mages, her eyes trained on Merrill. The little elf gulps and raises her staff; her grip trembles only slightly and Fenris has to respect that. After separating from the group to join Isabela at the edge of the ring, Bethany’s grip flounders slightly on the wooden grip and the mage covertly inspects her hand for splinters.

Across from him, Anders’ grip is tight and his stance shifts to an even more unbalanced one.

Fenris thinks to taunt his opponent further, but instead simply returns the mage’s stare. No words could ever communicate as much as his smirk currently does.

“Now…” Aveline enunciates slowly and raises her sword. _“Fight!_ ”

Next thing Fenris knows, he’s flat on his back and squinting into a muggy sky.

He blinks a few times, clearing the confused daze from his eyes, as he tries to make sense of the events that have left him lying in the dirt. Fenris rises to his elbows, slow and cautious, and finds himself staring up at Anders’ crooked grin.

Fenris has spent a great majority of his life staring up at mages but none of them managed to look as cocky and prideful as this one does. Anders’ grins stretches until it dimples a single check and snorts a breath of laughter out his excessively large nose as he expertly twirls the wooden rod in his hand, looking jaunty and more confident than Fenris has ever seen him. “Didn’t see that coming, did you, elf?”

Given the evidence before- or perhaps above- him, Fenris comes to the conclusion that Anders has somehow knocked his blunted sword from his hand and sent him sprawling into the dirt before Fenris could even get an initial hit in.

Which is obviously not what happened because Fenris _could not_ be knocked on his arse by a mage. _That would be impossible._

Almost immediately after, Isabela hits the ground next to Fenris with a loud “ _oof_ ” and a puff of dust that stings both their eyes.

Fenris turns to catch Bethany smiling brightly at the both of them. “I trained with Garrett and Carver for years,” she chirps with a bounce of her heels and a cheery grin.

Isabela leans into Fenris’ space, taking a risk and pressing her breasts against his shoulder blade, as she whispers, “Are you as turned on as I am?”

“Twenty sovereigns!” Varric demands over the stunned silence and Hawke is in such shock that he doesn’t complain when he hands over the coin.

“ _Maker_ , Anders.” Aveline gawks as she holds Merrill and the elf’s swinging arms away from her person with a sturdy hand on the elf’s forehead. “Where did that come from?”

“Grey Warden,” Anders says by way of explanation. “We marched for _days_ straight in the Deep Roads and during the Siege. Think I could’ve managed fighting for that long with only my magic, a grumpy archer, and a packet of salted pork?”

His words come out swift and practiced, as if the mage has waited for this moment since leaving the Wardens, and he twirls his sword one more time.

Fenris, who has only just come to terms with the fact that Anders did indeed knock him to the ground, grabs his disarmed sword and makes to stand. A throbbing at the center of his chest and on the underside of his forearm tells Fenris that Anders rushed him and knocked his arm hard enough to force a seasoned warrior to release his weapon.

Fenris’ movements are sharp and sudden as he rises to his feet and clenches his grip on his sword; he allowed Anders his small victory in the clinic, because the mage hadn’t actually won anything and Fenris had been feeling magnanimous, but he will not allow any victory here.

“Raise your sword, mage,” Fenris demands as he leaps forward.

The surprise that Anders used to land his first blow is gone now, never to return, and the mage squawks as he barely manages to parry Fenris’ first hit.

“Alright, alright!” Anders cries as he dances around on the sand, avoiding the prickling clouds Fenris kicks up as he circles the mage, thrusting every chance he’s given. Anders has a long reach, and the mage is so damn skinny hey hardly presents a target, but Fenris is faster and more agile then his opponent.

Smirking at the return of the status quo, Fenris lunges forward and brings his sword down toward Anders’ shoulder. The mage swings his sword upward in a move of pure desperation, as if trying to drive Fenris away and give himself some distance to maneuver, but the elf avoids such an obvious and wild attack with a step to the side.

Which apparently was a mistake because within moments, Anders uses the momentum Fenris lost in his attack and has taken a flying leap to tackle Fenris, sword and all, into the ground.

“Victory,” Anders simpers as he draws his sword across Fenris’ neck.

Fenris stares up at the mage- something that could not be allowed- but manages to calm his initial reaction. Suddenly, being defeated in melee combat _by a mage_ is no longer a theoretical _,_ but has become something that is. And it would be foolish not to accept reality.

“I yield.” Fenris rises as Anders does, watching the mage, who had seemed so gangly and clumsy mere moments ago, with some interest. “Did you study the Battlemages of Tevinter in your Circle?” he asks.

“What? No,” Anders replies shortly. “As if any of those idiots would hand me a sword. I told you, the Grey Wardens taught me to defend myself.”

Fenris frowns. “You’re technique is,” _wild, deceptively clumsy, unpredictable, entirely appropriate for your personality_ , “not typical of any I’ve studied, I simply wondered what style you learned.”

“Will you two stop bickering and get on with the training?!” Aveline shouts from across the field, a bit muffled from where she has Merrill in a headlock. Aveline, despite their air of sanity and maturity she puts effort into maintaining, is apparently as aggressive as the rest of them.

Although Anders raises his weapon as if to follow her order, Fenris waves a dismissive hand. _This_ , Anders standing before him looking perfectly at ease with the weight of a short sword in his hand, _this_ is interesting as so few things are. “So it was the Wardens who taught you swordsmanship?” he asks, wondering if Anders’ is a style unique to his Order.

Anders wrinkles his nose. “If you want to call a drunk, hairy dwarf chasing you around a castle with a battle axe teaching- which I wouldn’t, by the way- then yeah, the Wardens taught me how to handle a sword.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Isabela cries out from some steps away, but a strike of Bethany’s sword cuts off any further commentary.

Fenris ignores her. “For what purpose? You are a mage.”

Despite listening to her dramatic monologue, Fenris is convinced Aveline’s earlier speech on preparation for the Deep Roads was merely a weak justification for the game they planned to play with what they _thought_ were defenseless targets.

“Are you serious?” Anders chokes on his laughter. “People actively go for the mage! Think I wear a quilted mercenary coat for my health? No! Every rogue from here to Antiva is trying to stab me in the back!”

“I assumed that was your winning personality at play,” Fenris retorts petulantly.

“Yeah, ha ha _ha_.” Anders once again twirls his sword and Fenris wants to both break the mage’s fingers and laugh at his ridiculous strutting. “Says the elf I’ve knocked down twice.”

“There will not be a third time,” Fenris promises as he darts forward once more.

* * *

There was not a third time.

By the Chantry bell’s fourth chime, Fenris has regained a small amount of the dignity he lost to the mage and is feeling particularly good about himself.

Still, although he kept his feet, Fenris cannot say this exercise was a waste of time. He wears a few bruises from when his movements were a little too slow or Anders’ a little too enthusiastic and the ache of his muscles is stronger than the generalized pulse of the lyrium. For once, the pain is something Fenris finds pride in.

And to think, it’s a sword-wielding mage-healer is the one who stands across from him. Figuratively stands; literally, Anders is slumped on his arse, panting in the dirt.

“You are an excellent swordsman,” he concedes, prodding this new sense of companionship like a twinging tooth, and extends his hand to help the mage out of the dirt.

Anders’ face twists as he searches for insult in a genuine compliment or threat in an offered hand.

“I… right, thanks.” Anders scrambles to his feet without assistance, eyeing Fenris with the confused suspicion the elf has grown used to seeing ever since their interaction in the clinic.

Fenris can’t explain the sudden irritation he feels at the response, unaware that he had been expecting Anders to admit that they shared a moment and perhaps return the compliment with one of his own, and he sneers at the mage. “Do not thank me, thank whoever taught you.”

Anders hisses through his teeth as he looks away. “They didn’t do it out of the goodness of their blighted hearts.”

Fenris pauses thoughtfully; once again, he isolates a shared trait in the mage, but instead of annoying him, Fenris feels a sense of normalcy. There is a mage who feels as he does. A mage who is not a slave and who, despite his belief, has never been a slave, and yet shares so much with an elf who was.

Fenris doesn’t usually feel _normal_. He likes it.

“I understand the sentiment,” Fenris admits, working to keep his voice even to prevent Anders from wildly misinterpreting him, as seems to be their pattern. “Still, despite their selfish motivations, you are well taught. Unlike Aveline, you do not feel the need to bash me with a shield or give up and start throwing fire, as Merrill did.”

Anders, still struggling to catch his breath, grins at the memory. “Can’t say I wasn’t tempted.”

When the mage bends to pick up his discarded coat and staff at the edge of their battle ground as if he intends to leave the arena, Fenris arches an eyebrow. “Did I say you could leave?”

“ _What?!_ ” Anders croaks as he spins around. “It’s dark out!”

Fenris arches the other brow.

“Aveline left three hours ago!”

Fenris sighs a touch too dramatically and acquiesces, “Fine, you may return to your clinic.”

As Anders turns away, something appears to come over him. He freezes in his movements and, without turning back, asks, “You think I’m any good?”

Fenris nods despite the uselessness of the gesture. “I think you have talent in the arena. If you trained further, you could be a significant threat even without your magic.”

Although Fenris can’t see the smile, he knows it’s there by the hitch in the mage’s shoulders and the ringing in his voice as Anders asks, “So, if I wanted to train some more, could we meet here, you think?”

Fenris is glad that, with his back turned, he doesn’t have to hide his grin from the mage. “I doubt Aveline would mind.”

* * *

 

“You are late, mage,” Fenris accuses two months later.

The weather has turned sour over the past week; no longer is Fenris sweating under the dry heat of a Kirkwall summer but shivering as that heat turns to biting winds. Admittedly, the transition leaves him tense and grumbling.

Anders’ pace slows as he approaches.

“Sick kid?” he offers by way of explanation, smiling crookedly and shrugging his arms as if even he sees through the flimsy excuse.

Fenris crosses his arms and quirks an eyebrow. Anders is in a good mood, it seems, but Fenris is still annoyed over waiting for so long.

“Ri-ight.” Anders drawls with a roll of his eyes. “I forgot. _Silent type_.”

Fenris draws his great sword from his belt, making sure the flat of the emerging blade shrieks threateningly against the holster. Anders gulps and reveals his own sword, one purchased by Varric for cheap (as the dwarf so enthusiastically proclaimed) when the group learned from Aveline that their two most aggressive friends were spending time together. Voluntarily.

Even if that time was spent hitting each other, it was apparently still cause for celebration on their part.

Anders and Fenris graduated from the childish wooden swords and blunted weapons from the guard’s armory nearly a week ago, when Fenris complained of the differing weight and Anders proclaimed the desire for a different melee weapon than his staff.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, the switch allows Fenris to be more determined in his attacks.

“You take pain well,” Fenris compliments two hours later when Anders staggers to his feet after a solid hit to his diaphragm.

Anders tries to give Fenris a deadpan stare, although he falters and the corners of his lip twitch dangerously. “Are you flirting with me?” he accuses.

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Raise your sword, mage, and I’ll show you flirting.”

"I wish that was the first time someone said that to me."

Fenris can't help but chuckle. Still, he hits Anders particularly hard for that.

“I can handle it.” Anders laughs as he parries the blow, making his block look effortless when Fenris can see his sword and arm vibrating under the hit. “I’ve had a long history of taking pain.”

“Ah yes, your _vile_ Circle,” Fenris recalls with another roll of his eyes and thrust of his sword.

Anders slashes forward again with a little more anger. “Not them. The Templars,” the mage pants, “were far more inventive. I meant the Grey Wardens.”

Fenris pauses, allowing Anders to smack his sword against his the spikes lining his shoulder before he shrugs the blow away, and asks, “The ones who taught you?”

It’s rare for Anders to speak of his own experience, rarer still for the Wardens to be his chosen conversation topic.

“Teach? Maker, _no_.” Anders gives a breathless laugh and pulls away, taking several clumsy steps backward to allow himself a moment to breathe. “They hit me until I learned.”

Fenris can’t help the smile that dawns as he lowers his own sword. Perhaps they might pause for tea. Fenris can still smell the pastries lain in the window of the small bakery he passed when walking to the arena.

Perhaps Anders deserves a break.

After all, Fenris finds it very likely that it was in fact a sick child who diverted Anders.

* * *

When Anders drops his staff and disembowels an advancing bandit during one of their jaunts with Hawke, wielding his blade with the grace gained in long hours of practice, he immediately looks to Fenris.

Fenris can’t help the burst of pride he feels as he smiles at the mage and receives a surprised grin in return. 

* * *

Fenris crosses his arms the moment Anders enters the arena and cocks a disapproving eyebrow as the mage approaches.

“You are _late_ , mage,” he scolds with a sharp tap of his clawed gauntlets against his arm brace.

Anders, who is dragging his bound sword behind him, smirks tiredly. “What,” he says between yawns, “you’re not going to pretend you just got here? That’s standard bad date fare, don’t you think?”

Fenris responds to his evasiveness with a glare. Still, his irritation melts away when he takes in the dark circles dragging down heavy eyes and the skin flaking off pale lips. Fenris’ glare softens and frown deepens as he takes in Anders’ exhausted appearance; why is it that whenever the mage isn’t running around like a maniac, trying to save every weeping soul in Darktown and unleashing the chaos of his dimwitted kin on Thedas, he is practically asleep on his feet?

Ridiculous fool of a mage.

Anders shifts under Fenris’ attention, something the elf thinks he really ought to get used to, and avoids his eyes. “Well, ah, should we begin?” he asks as he raises his sword half-heartedly.

“No,” Fenris jerks his head to the side, surprising Anders. “I have waited too long in the heat, and I will not allow you to waste my time here any longer.”

“Fenris, I…” Anders shifts between his feet, glancing away like a scolded child as he fiddles with his sword.

Fenris doesn’t wait for Anders to reply, or perhaps apologize, and instead turns on his heels and walks away. Still, Fenris offers Anders a softened, backward smile to communicate to the mage that he is welcome to follow before asking, in his usual commanding tone, “I know you are abysmal at Wicked Grace, but how are you at Diamondback?”

Anders pauses in his hurry to catch up with Fenris’ stride and blinks unthinkingly at the question. “Mediocre.”

The honesty pulls a chuckle from Fenris. “Then, should you still like to spend your time with me, my mansion is cool in the summer heat and open to you.”

Anders opens his mouth, looking shocked but pleased all the same, and before he can say something suitably sentimental that would inevitably ruin Fenris’ good will, the elf adds, “I am, after all, running low on coin.”

“Oh ha _ha_.” Anders rolls his eyes but there is honest laughter in his voice as he says, “You are such a _tit_.”


End file.
